The Starting Line

It is 4:52 a.m.

I went to bed around 9:30 last night because I am supposed to be tapering.

In two days, I will run TransJeju 60K.

Two weeks later, I will run the Gyeongju Marathon.

Two weeks after that, I will attempt UTNP 9 Peaks.

Three races in October.

The October Crucible.

So this week should be simple.

Rest.

Eat.

Sleep eight hours.

Run a little.

Don’t do anything stupid.

And somehow I can’t even follow that plan perfectly.

I woke up around 4:30.

That was it.

I was awake.

A few years ago, something this small probably would have bothered me more.

I was supposed to sleep eight hours.

I didn’t.

The plan said one thing.

Reality did another.

But lying there this morning, I started thinking about how often that happens.

Training plans.

Race plans.

Business plans.

Plans for learning Korean.

Career plans.

Life plans.

You can spend hours creating the perfect plan and reality can destroy it in about five minutes.

Maybe that’s not a problem.

Maybe that’s the point.

I’ve been thinking about two words for this:

Flexible Clarity.

The Path

I originally used the words Flexible Clarity when thinking about people transitioning out of ESL and trying to figure out what comes next. I did this in 2017, before Chatgpt.

The words just felt right together.

They still do.

Clarity means knowing the way.

You know what you’re trying to do.

You know why you’re doing it.

You know the direction you’re moving.

There’s something comforting about that.

I know exactly what I need to do, and I’m going to do it.

But then there is reality.

The job you planned to get doesn’t exist when you get home.

The company doesn’t want to work with you.

Your body doesn’t respond the way the training plan predicted.

You wake up at 4:30 when you’re supposed to sleep eight hours.

The crystal-clear path you drew doesn’t exist anymore.

That’s where flexibility comes in.

A little wiggle room.

Enough room to maneuver around whatever is actually in front of you.

You need both.

Too much flexibility and you’re wandering.

Too much clarity and you can become so attached to the plan that you can’t respond when something changes.

Kilometer 70

Nine Peaks gives me a pretty simple example.

Imagine I’m 70 kilometers into the race.

My plan says this section is runnable.

Before the race, that makes perfect sense.

Then I actually get there.

My quads are destroyed.

My mechanics are falling apart.

Running isn’t working anymore.

So I walk.

That isn’t abandoning the objective.

The objective is still there.

Keep moving forward.

Finish the race.

I’m just doing the best I can with what I have at that moment.

Now change one thing.

I’m at kilometer 70 and physically I’m okay.

Nothing is injured.

My mechanics are still there.

I’m just miserable.

I’m tired.

I’m uncomfortable.

I don’t want to do it anymore.

Now “being flexible” could become a very convenient excuse.

Nothing has actually changed.

I just don’t want to continue.

So I keep going.

That’s an important distinction.

Flexible Clarity isn’t permission to do whatever I feel like doing.

Sometimes the plan needs to change.

Sometimes I need to change.

The hard part is being honest enough to know the difference.

Make the World Smaller

One thing I’ve learned from ultramarathons is that thinking about the big picture can actually make things harder.

Sometimes I’ll be 30 kilometers into a 100-kilometer race and think:

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

For a second, it feels good.

Then:

Shit. I’m only at 30K.

Now I have 70 kilometers sitting in my head.

So I make the world smaller.

Don’t think about the finish.

Get to the next checkpoint.

If the checkpoint feels too far away, get to the next section.

If that’s too much, find a tree.

Get to the tree.

And sometimes even the tree doesn’t matter.

Look down.

Take the next step.

Then another.

The finish line can stay where it is.

I don’t need to carry it with me.

I’m starting to think a lot of life works this way.

Positive English Coaching is a good example.

I don’t know exactly what the business will look like in 2027.

I don’t know which contracts I’ll get.

I don’t know which products will work.

I don’t know exactly who will pay me.

I don’t even know which part of the business will eventually become the biggest opportunity.

I can make a plan.

I should make a plan.

But “build Positive English Coaching” is too big to do today.

So make it smaller.

Have the conversation.

Make the offer.

Follow up.

Learn something.

Then take the next step.

There are things I can control.

I can do the work.

I can reach out.

I can make connections.

But I can’t force someone to do business with me.

Sometimes they don’t want to.

Sometimes they can’t.

Sometimes they give me a reason that might be bullshit.

It doesn’t really matter.

Say thank you.

Keep the relationship.

Move on.

Maybe our paths cross again later.

Learning Korean works the same way.

If I think about everything I don’t know, the problem becomes enormous.

Every word.

Every grammar pattern.

Every conversation I can’t completely understand.

So make it smaller.

Learn this.

Say this.

Understand this conversation.

Handle what is directly in front of me.

The macro gives me direction.

The micro is where I actually live.

The Plan That Failed

I didn’t always understand this.

Years ago, I quit corporate America.

From the outside, my life probably looked fine.

It didn’t feel fine.

I had taken seven years to finish a four-year degree.

I transferred universities to play basketball.

Then I wasn’t playing basketball anymore.

I stumbled into corporate America.

I felt like I was supposed to have everything figured out.

People told me they didn’t have everything figured out either.

I didn’t believe them.

I thought there was some correct plan everyone else understood that I had somehow missed.

Why wasn’t I in a better position?

What was I doing wrong?

Where was this supposed to go?

When the plan encountered friction, I panicked.

Eventually, I quit.

For months, I wandered around the United States without much of a plan at all.

From Rhode Island to San Diego.

Then to Portland, Maine.

Finally, South Korea.

I came here and suddenly even the simplest parts of life became difficult again.

Walk into a convenience store.

Order something.

Ask a question.

Understand the answer.

Things I could do without thinking in America became tiny challenges.

And strangely, there was something freeing about that.

It felt like a clean slate.

I didn’t need to have my entire life figured out.

I needed to figure out how to do the thing directly in front of me.

One small problem.

Then another.

More than a decade later, I’m still here.

That certainly wasn’t the plan.

And maybe that’s the part I understand differently now.

I used to think I needed to know more.

Know the plan.

Know the answer.

Know where everything was going.

Have things figured out.

But I don’t need to know everything.

I need to know the next step.

And maybe even that doesn’t completely explain it.

I don’t need an encyclopedia in my head.

I don’t need to know every fact.

I don’t need to have an answer for everything.

I need enough humility to recognize when I’m wrong.

Enough empathy to understand that someone else might be experiencing the world differently.

Enough compassion to care.

Enough clarity to know what matters.

And enough flexibility to change when reality asks me to.

The Finish Line

That brings me back to 4:52 a.m.

I was supposed to sleep eight hours.

I didn’t.

Okay.

Nothing useful happens by turning that into a crisis.

TransJeju is still coming.

Gyeongju is still coming.

Nine Peaks is still coming.

I still want to finish all three.

I still want to attempt sub-three hours at Gyeongju.

I still want to finish Nine Peaks healthy.

Those things give me direction.

But I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen.

I don’t know how I’ll feel Saturday morning.

I don’t know what will happen halfway through TransJeju.

I don’t know what 4:14/km will feel like at kilometer 35 in Gyeongju.

I definitely don’t know what my legs will feel like 70 kilometers into Nine Peaks.

I can plan for those things.

I should plan for those things.

But I can’t solve them from my bed at 4:52 in the morning.

I can only deal with what’s in front of me.

Maybe that’s Flexible Clarity.

Enough clarity to know where I’m going.

Enough flexibility to deal with what I find along the way.

And enough honesty to know when I’m adapting and when I’m making an excuse.

Sometimes grit means following the plan when I don’t want to.

Sometimes grit means changing the plan when it no longer makes sense.

Sometimes it might even mean stopping.

Stopping one workout.

Stopping one race.

Stopping one career.

One Way Grit doesn’t mean blindly continuing down a path that isn’t working.

Sometimes stopping one thing is what allows you to continue toward something bigger.

I know that because I’ve done it.

I quit corporate America.

I didn’t know where that would lead.

More than ten years later, I’m sitting in Korea at 4:52 in the morning writing about three races I’m about to attempt in October.

That wasn’t the plan either.

So today I’ll deal with today.

Eat.

Rest.

Recover.

Don’t do anything stupid.

Then get to the starting line.

After that?

Look down.

Take the next step.

One Way Grit.